


Methos Chronicles 22

by Helis_von_Askir



Series: Methos Chronicles [22]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helis_von_Askir/pseuds/Helis_von_Askir
Summary: A look into Marique's past. And like every Immortal, she had her burdens to bear.
Series: Methos Chronicles [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1350058
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Methos Chronicles 22

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know Highlander or its characters. Only my OC's.

“So, how is our new student doing this fine morning?” Marique asked with a smile as she entered the kitchen where Methos was making lunch.

Methos rolled his eyes. “You know, one of these days I’ll manage to surprise you.”

“You can try.” Marique shrugged and stole a piece of carrot Methos was currently cutting. “You knew what you got into with when you asked me to stay.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Methos replied and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her long and hard. “Surprised yet?”

Marique smiled. “No, but I do so love you trying. Do keep going.”

“But then I’ll burn lunch. Or have you foreseen that too, oh my little clairvoyant?” Methos asked.

Marique slapped him only half playfully. “Don’t call me that. You know how much I hate that term.”

“A thousand apologies.” Methos whispered against her skin.

“Now, tell me why history again.” Marique demanded.

Methos shrugged. “Don’t have to study for it.”

Marique raised one well-shaped eyebrow and even though Methos couldn’t see it since his face was buried in her neck, he knew that she was doing it.

With a sigh Methos stopped what he was doing and faced her. “I need something else to do, aside from painting, I’m kind of running out of things to pain, I fear. Going back to university seemed the thing to do. And I’m comfortable with history.”

“So, I’m not keeping you busy enough?” Marique asked in an innocent tone.

“Well, you do, but you also have very, very important work to do and I would never dream of keeping you from doing it.” Therefore I have to entertain myself while you’re doing it.” Methos told her. He had put himself right into that one, hadn’t he?

Marique smiled. “Now, that is a very, very good answer. But you’re burning our lunch.”

With a curse turned back to the oven and rescued of it what he could, throwing a dark look over his shoulder while Marique giggled amused.

His first day as student was just like pretty much every other first day at pretty much any university he had ever attended. With one notable exception. When Richie had learned that Methos was becoming a student again, he had been ecstatic, going on about how he had been missing a proper wingman anyway and that he would show him the ropes this time around.

Methos had let the kid ramble on. He kind of liked the young Immortals exuberance and energy. Richie would calm down eventually, no reason to not let him enjoy it first.

And it had the added benefit of getting introduced to a lot of other students. Saved him a lot of effort and work on his part. And more than one of the young women, and some of the men, tried to hit on him. He couldn’t remember ever having to repeat so many times that he had a girlfriend.

Marique found it immensely amusing when they met in Joe’s bar later that day and he told her about his day. Most students went to bars closer to the university so they were mostly among themselves.

“You know you could at least pretend to be jealous.” Methos pointed out.

Marique smiled at him. “No need, I know you’re mine.” And you know what I’ll do to you if you cheat on me without my permission.”

“Wait a second, he can cheat on you if you say it’s okay?” Richie asked surprised.

Marique shrugged. “If I know about it, then it’s not cheating, is it?”

“Besides, she would probably want to join in. The more the merrier, you know.” Methos added with a grin.

“Okay, where can I find someone like her?” Richie wanted to know from the old Immortal.

Methos laid his arm around Marique’s shoulders. “Sorry, kid, she’s one of a kind and all mine.”

Marique boxed him in the shoulder before kissing him. “something about the whole cave man thing is kind of hot, as long as you don’t overdue it.” She informed him.

“Never,” Methos promised and kissed her again.

Since Methos took only a handful of courses he had still enough time to continue with his paintings. Signora DiNardo was delighted, if she could have, she would have bought every single one of them right on the spot. It was nice to have a devoted fan like that.

“She has quite the crush on you.” Marique commented while Methos worked. “It’s kind of sweet.”

“Don’t be silly.” Methos disagreed. “She just knows quality when she sees it.”

“That too, but she still had a crush on you.” Marique kissed his nose. “Not that I can blame her, she has good tastes”

“If you say so, but I never start a thing with a patron, that’s bad form.” Methos stated and put the brush down.

“Since when?” Marique wanted to know. “I mean, I remember that one guy in, what was it, England under Elisabeth I, he invested quite a lot into your…education and you didn’t mind rolling between the sheets with him.”

“That was different.” Methos said. “It was.” He insisted when Marique gave him that look again. “Besides, you are taking up all my attention, so what do I care about a love struck patron?”

Marique rolled her eyes. “Laying it on way too thick, but still sweet.”

When Methos left his class a few days later, he felt the Buzz. He knew it wasn’t Ryan, he was on some trip with his newest girlfriend, so he looked around carefully until his gaze fell on a woman he had not been expecting to see.

“What brings you here?” he asked when he reached the bench she was sitting on.

“I had some business in the south.” She replied.

“Do I want to know, Tyrael?” Methos sat down next to her. With Tyral business usually meant a lot of dead bodies.

Tyrael smiled sweetly at him. “Probably not.”

“Are you staying long then?” he wanted to know.

Tyrael shrugged. “A few days to get some shopping done, ruined more than one set of clothes, you know how it is. Besides, I wanted to see how settled life suits you.”

“Jealous?” Methos asked with a grin. Apparently the fact that he was in a somewhat steady relationship with another Immortal was fodder for a lot of gossip. Like he had never done that before. One of his most steady relationships was sitting right next to him, for crying out loud.

Tyrael didn’t dignify that with an answer. “Give that to Marique for me, will you?” She said and gave him an envelope, a pretty heavy one.

Methos raised an eyebrow at the weight. “What’s in there, gold?”

“None of your business.” Tyrael informed him.

Methos rolled his eyes. “You can give it to her yourself, you know. I’ll even invite you to dinner.”

“I know.” Tyrael said and stood up. “See you around, Old Man.”

Methos watched her walk away, catching the attention of pretty much everyone she passed. She did that on purpose. If she wanted to Tyrael could have walked through the crowd without anyone noticing her.

Shaking his head he put the envelope away in his backpack. He didn’t know what was going on between Tyrael and Marique right now, but he didn’t think it was bad, Tyrael wouldn’t have bothered with him otherwise. It was just one of these things men had not prayer of ever understanding.

Marique weighted the envelope in her hand. “I didn’t think she would remember.” She said solemnly.

“Care to enlighten me?” Methos asked. “What happened between the two of you? What this about?”

Marique shrugged. “Call it an intellectual dispute. It’s not important, really, and has nothing to do with this.”

“Well, what is this then?” Methos prompted. He hadn’t looked inside, that would have been rude, and he liked his balls right where they were, thank you very much.

A sad smile played around her lips. “Something I have lost a while ago.”

Paris, France, 1793 AD

They had killed the king. Dragged him through the streets and cut of his head. Marique hadn’t been a particularly enthusiastic supporter of him, he had a rather incompetent king, even for kings in general, but this revolution was taking it way too far. These revolutionaries worried her. Their zeal and fanaticism led them to do horrible things. They had accused the Ancient Regime of them and now they were doing them themselves. Yet, they still believed that they were better, that they were making the realm better.

And now the talk on the street was that the queen, the former queen, would soon follow her husband. There was no word on what would happen to the children.

Not that Marique liked her all that much either, but the woman had already lost everything, even her children had been taken away from her, and you could say whatever you wanted about Marie Antoinette, she loved her children, why humiliate her even further? Why the spectacle? Why would anyone still be afraid of that broken woman?

“What are you thinking about, Mama?” Isabelle asked, startling Marique from her thoughts. They were sitting in one of the new cafés enjoying some tea.

“That it may be time for safer shores.” Marique told her daughter, who was officially her sister.

“Are you sure that’s necessary? I mean, with the king, I mean, citizen Capet, dead, things will surely calm down.” Isabelle pointed out.

Marique sighed, pushing her strands of her black-dyed hair out of her face. “I don’t believe it will. I believe it will get worse.”

“Is…this…one of your, you know?” Isabelle stammered.

“Shhh,” Marique hushed her. “We are in public, remember?”

Isabelle blushed. “I’m sorry, Mama…But I don’t want to leave. Francis will ask for my hand any day now, I know he will.”

Marique couldn’t help but smile at her daughter. Eighteen and considering herself all grown up. “I’m sure he’ll man up eventually, but maybe you could suggest an extended vacation outside of France.”

Now it was Isabelle’s turn to sigh. “He’ll never leave France. This is his dream.”

“Then let us hope it won’t turn into a nightmare.” Marique muttered.

The square was packed with people, excited over a new round of executions. Bloodthirsty lot, Marique thought with disgust but careful not to let her true feelings show. Ever since Robespierre had declared the Grand Terror on France it was dangerous to be seen as any less than a complete patriot.

Not that it had helped those hundreds of people arrested in the last weeks. Including Isabelle and her new husband Francis. For days Marique had tried to find them, or to at least to learn if they still lived. But no success until a couple of hours ago when the list of those sentenced to death had been publicized.

She should have known, she had the gift, she knew so many things, but not this. Not that her own child was about to be sacrificed to the madness the revolution had grown into. If only she had taken her child and fled the country when there was still time. But time had run out.

An excited murmur ran through the crowd and a few moments later Marique saw the first carts being driven to the guillotine set up in the middle of the market square.

From her position Marique couldn’t see much but her efforts to get closer were stopped by the solid wall of human bodies. Bus she needed to get closer. She needed to safe her daughter! She couldn’t fail her.

There were ten carts in all, full of men and women, terrified and crying, all of them. The men were dragged up for execution first and with every head that fell into the bloody basket the crowd cheered. Some only played along, sure, but most really enjoyed this sudden power, the illusion of power the leaders of the revolution gave the common people.

It was all a lie, of course. Those in power would never give the common people any real power, no matter what form of government they set up. Games and bread, a tried and true formula since the days of the Roman Empire.

All that was running through Marique’s head as she made her way towards the last cart where she could see he daughter cowering, inch by painful inch.

Marique called out to her but the noise of the crowd drowned her out. She was still twenty, twenty-five meters away when they dragged the first woman off the cart. She was a pretty thing, clearly aristocratic and utterly terrified. It took four men to drag her up the wooden steps and tie her down. Then one quick pull on the rope and the poor woman was a head shorter and the crowd laughed at her fearful and desperate struggle.

Marique normally wasn’t an angry person, but in that moment she hated everyone in the square with a passion, including herself, for not seeing this coming.

Then it was Isabelle’s turn. And still Marique was too far away to do anything but shove forward in the hope to get closer, to be able to grab her and run away with her. Foolish, but all she had left.

Isabelle was shaking badly. She had tears streaming down her face but tried to put on a brave front. She climbed the steps on her own but then she could go no further. They pushed her down on the plank, tied her fast and the blade came rushing down.

As the crowd cheered, Marique screamed. Her child was dead, murdered by this madmen and for what? Scaring people into good revolutionaries? They wanted to be scared? Oh, she would show them fear, real terror.

Marique fled the square. That was no easier than trying to reach the carts, but eventually she was free of the press of bodies. As she stumbled down an alley, breathing heavily between sobs her determination hardened. Those responsible for this madness would pay. She would find them one by one and they would die!

And she would start with Francis, dear Francis, who hadn’t been on the carts, who hadn’t been executed today. He better be rotting in a prison cell, Marique thought as she made her way towards the Bastille. Because if he wasn’t, she would make his death as painful as possible.

Francis had been put under _house arrest_. While his wife had lost her head he had had a fine lunch with a couple of friends. His confinement wasn’t exactly a hardship. After all, until a few years ago, the building had been one of the royal palace.

Marique didn’t waste time trying to get in the front door. Visitors weren’t allowed unless the guards were bribed generously. And though Marique had the money, she would be damned if she handed those bastards a single sou.

She waited until past midnight before breaking into the palace. From some eavesdropping earlier she knew where Frances was being _confined_.

He was fast asleep in a fine bed when she slipped into the bedroom. She woke him with a knife at his throat.

“Scream and it will be the last thing you’ll ever do.” Marqiue hissed into his ear.

“Marie, thank God, you’re alright. I was worried sick.” Francis whispered.

Marique pressed the knife in a little harder. “Spare me. Better tell me why you handed your own wife over for execution.”

Francis blanched in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. “Executed? No, that wasn’t the agreement. Isabelle was just to be held for a few days and then released. It was just for show, to keep the peace.”

“For show? That was no show at the market square today. They killed her for real.” Marique told him. “And why a show? For whom?”

“Robespierre, of course.” Francis said. “The man is insane, but he has power. I agreed to our arrest to proof our loyalty. Isabelle was never meant to come to any harm, I swear.”

Marique believed him. The mortal wasn’t a good enough liar to fool her. But that wasn’t an excuse for his stupidity.

“Then why is she dead and you’re not?” Marique wanted to know. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Francis whispered.

“Not good enough.” Marique hissed and pressed the knife a little deeper, drawing blood.

He was crying now. “I’m sorry, you have to believe me, it’s not my fault. Robespierre wanted Isabelle, he’s mad for her. But she told him now. And I wouldn’t order her to his bed. He must have decided to take his revenge. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s easy to be sorry afterwards.” Marique stated coldly. How couldn’t it have been obvious to Francis that Robespierre would do this given the chance?

“Please, don’t kill me.” Francis begged.

Marique stared down at the young mortal. “Too late for that.” She cut his throat. The blood sprayed everywhere but Marique didn’t care. Her daughter had to die because of fools. One was now dead. And the other would follow. She would make sure of that.

Maximilien Francis Marie Isidore de Robespierre was either a genius or utterly insane. Because he didn’t like the Roman Catholic Church he had decided that the people of France should have a new religion.

The cult of the Supreme Being had been thought up by him alone and as such he was of course the high priest. He didn’t dream small, she had to give him that.

The whole thing was a mistake, though. One Marique used to her advantage. After the festival where Robespierre had tried his best to imitate Moses she went around Paris, whispering words into open ears here and there. It didn’t take much to turn some of the most influential men against him. They hadn’t been happy with Robespierre for some time now and Marique easily pushed them further and further with only a few well-placed rumors and gossip. They didn’t even realize what was happening.

_It’s not enough for him to be master, he has to be God. Spoken_ first by a man named Jacques-Alexis Thuriot soon became repeated everywhere.

And when the decree of 22 Prairial was passed, Marique knew that she didn’t have to do anything more, aside from watch Robespierre’s downfall.

The law permitted the execution of a citizen thought to be a counter-revolutionary, even under simply suspicion, no proof or trial necessary. Many of the members of the Convention and the Committees feared that Robespierre and his allies would be soon after them and they decided to act first. Again Marique had only had to whisper a few words into the right ears.

Some of these men probably deserved death too, but Marique didn’t care. This revolution was not hers, never had been. And why should be? Egalité, Liberté et Fratnerité, but only for men. Women were still as right-less as before. If there ever was a revolution that really wanted to change that, she might even get behind it.

But for now all she wanted was to see Robespierre dead. What happened to France she couldn’t care less about. Let them kill each other until all were dead, or rise to new heights of humanity. It was the same to her.

Paris, France, 28 July 1794 AD

Marique was back the Place de la Révolution and this time she wanted to be here. From her place in the back she could still make see Robespierre and fourteen of his allies, including his brother, being led up to the guillotine. Robespierre was secured to the board and the executioner ripped some bandage from his face. An agonized scream ripped through the square until the blade came down and silenced him forever.

“Can’t even commit suicide properly.” One woman next to her muttered.

How fickle the favor of the mob was, Marique mused. Only a few days ago Robespierre had been their hero, the one they all happily followed and now they cheered his death just as happily. Marique felt no joy, no elation, not even anger, but satisfaction. She felt good for having avenged her daughter. She knew that revenge was for the living, not the dead. Isabelle was beyond such concerns, but Marique was not and she had needed badly.

Before the last man was dead, Marique left. She had packed the night before and now it was time to leave. She would head to Calais and from there to Dover and London. Pretty much any place was better at the moment than France.

Present Day

When Marique opened the envelope she found a locket and a small book inside. She didn’t have to open either to know that both had belonged to Isabelle. Fighting back tears, Marique ran her hands over the cover. God, but she missed her little girl.

She would have to thank Tyrael for finding these things for her. But she wouldn’t ask how the old immortal had found them. Tyrael liked her secrets as much as Methos liked to be cynical and mysterious.

“Everything alright?” Methos asked from the door.

Marique smiled at him. “Yes, everything’s alright.” She would tell him about Isabelle another day.

A few days later, Marique went into the Vatican museum. Among the paintings and statues she found Tyrael slowly strolling from one piece to the next.

“You could have given it to me yourself.” She greeted the older Immortal.

Tyrael smiled. “Methos said the same thing. That must mean you’re made for each other.”

“Funny. But why didn’t you?” Marique asked curious. “Because of your disagreement?”

“No,” Tyrael shrugged. “I just wanted to get a feeling as to how serious Methos is about this.”

“A lot more serious than either of us thought, I think, same as me.” Marique said. “Thank you, I mean it.”

“It was my pleasure.” Tyrael inclined her head.

“Come join us for dinner. Methos already started cooking.” Marique invited her.

“Hmm, he invited me too.” Tyrael smiled. “Guess I have to give in now.”

The two Immortals arrive at the villa just as Methos was putting the finishing touches to the food. They settled on the terrace to enjoy dinner and several bottle of red wine.

“What? No beer? Who are you and what have you done with Methos?” Tyrael joked.

Methos rolled his eyes. “Very funny. It’s alcohol, that’s good enough for me.”

They kept the conversation light during dinner. Afterwards, once the table had been cleared and Methos brought out the hard liquor they sat around the pool, enjoying the night air.

“Are you two ever going to tell me what happened?” Methos asked after a while.

“It’s stupid.” Marique told him.

“And you know what curiosity did to the cat.” Tyrael added.

Methos refilled his glass. “This particular cat is immortal, so spill.”

Tyrael snorted unladylike. “It’s pretty stupid.”

“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.” Methos insisted.

“Yeah, it kind of can.” Marique sighed and exchanged a look with Tyrael.

“We all did lots of stupid things, what’s one more?” Methos pointed out.

Tyrael shrugged. “He’s your boyfriend, your decision.”

Marique stared at the water in the pool as if it held the answer to all the questions in the universe before nodding. “Have you ever been in a harem?”

“Had a small one once or twice in my life.” Methos said carefully.

“And did the women like being there?” Tyrael wanted to know.

“Since most of them were slaves, I doubt it.” Methos replied. “I mean, some, sure, it was better than what they had before, but most just…sucked it up and made the best out of it. Oh, you were in one too?” Guess he should have seen that one coming.

Both women nodded.

“More than once, actually.” Tyrael sighed. “And I didn’t like it at all, especially the last time.”

“And though I was no fan of being in a harem either, I did make the best of it and do not have quite the same disgust for it as Tyrael.” Marique added. “As I said, and intellectual dispute, a stupid one.”

“About whether it’s nice to be in a harem or not.” Methos had to make sure.

Tyrael nodded. “Pretty much.”

Constantinople, Ottoman Empire, 1533 AD

Outwardly calm Tyrael was seething inside. One moment of inattention and she found herself a slave. That she could deal with. She had been a slave far too many times before to not to handle it. What really set her blood boiling was that she had been sold into a harem, and that she had been forced to convert to Islam, like swearing an oath on the pain of death really counted. No one would ever dictate what she believed and what not. Besides, what did these mortal fools know about the gods? Nothing!

Oh, she was being fed and clothed, had a clean bed and no hard work, but she couldn’t leave, she couldn’t read what she wanted, she couldn’t pay the way she wanted. Like all the other women, even the sultan’s wives, even his mother, were captives in the harem. They might ignore that fact as much as they liked, it was still the truth.

Speaking of the sultan’s mother, she ruled the harem with an iron fist, even the eunuchs feared her. Valide Sultan Hafsa was a woman to be feared. Tyrael could at least respect that. An old woman by mortal standards, she still carried her like a woman half her age, the sultan’s two wives trailing her like baby ducks trying to keep up with the mother duck, not to mention all the concubines and slave girls.

“You all belong now to Suleiman the Magnificent.” The old woman informed the women newly arrived. Tyrael had heard that speech a few times now. She was very low in the hierarchy and she intended to keep it that way. It meant she had to help the new women to find their way around, what to do, when and most importantly, what not to do. “Execute your duties diligently and you will have a good life here, fail to do so and you will be punished harshly. The great sultan doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

Life in the harem was overly complicated and convoluted. There were a thousand senseless rules they had to obey. The worst was that they had to fall to their knees whenever the sultan entered the room. How were they supposed to get anything done when they had to kiss the bloody floor every other moment, just because Suleiman was pacing restlessly?

Tyrael had been confined into harems before, in her long life it couldn’t always be avoided, but this was by far the most annoying one. The backstabbing was unbelievable, and they couldn’t even drink alcohol to pass the time.

At one point the valide appointed her to serve the sultan’s newest expecting concubine, an exotic woman of not even twenty and big with child. It was not an easy time for her and she let those around feel it. If Tyrael was not mistaken then the girl was carrying twins and she could understand how that might make someone grumpy. The birth was going to be interesting.

“Do you have my tea?” Mikrimah asked impatiently.

Tyrael knelt in front of the young woman and held the tablet with the prepared cup up. With a frown Mikrimah took a sip. Tyrael had made the tea perfectly but that didn’t necessarily mean that she wouldn’t be punished for an imagined slight or mistake.

“It will do.” Mikrimah decided. “Bring me some pastries, the sultan’s son is hungry.”

Tyrael obeyed, shaking her head inwardly. The sultan’s might just as well be a daughter, or two, and they weren’t hungry, it was just an excuse to indulge in the far too sweet treats the girl loved so much. Besides, why would any woman want to bear the sultan even more sons? Suleiman was no longer the youngest and no matter which of his sons would succeed him, his first order would be to have all his brothers murdered. Daughters were much safer, if not considered as valuable as sons. Maybe Mikrmah deluded herself into thinking that her child would have a chance to become sultan one day, but he or she would be born far too late in the sultan’s life to have any real chance.

Tyrael brought the food and then knelt in on corner awaiting the next order. Hopefully Roxelana wouldn’t come by. That woman had a hold on the sultan that all the other women hated her for, even the sultan’s mother despised her, but couldn’t do anything against, she had borne the sultan sons and he was besotted with her.

Mikrimah hated her especially. Tyrael didn’t know why but she always was in a black mood when she saw Roxelana. But that day it wasn’t Roxelana that showed up but the sultan himself.

“Ah, my love.” He grinned down at Mikrimah. “How is my son doing today?”

“Growing as strong as his father.” The young woman assured him, trying to sit up be her belly got in the way. Tyrael hurried over to help and put some pillows behind her back to make her more comfortable, then just as quickly and quietly returned to her place. All the while she kept her gaze averted but she could still feel Suleiman’s eyes on her. Damn it!

_I’m just a lowly slave_ , she thought. _Forget I exist._ The last thing she wanted was to share that man’s bed.

He made some small talk with Mikrimah before leaving again. At least that put the girl in a wonderful mood for the rest of the day. Tyrael wished she could be so blissfully oblivious, but she had a bad feeling concerning the sultan.

It didn’t take long for her to be summoned to the valide’s room where she and the sultan were already waiting. As demanded by the rules of the harem, Tyrael fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor and there she waited.

“What’s your name, girl?” Suleiman finally asked.

“Huma, lord.” Tyrael said against the carpet. She had not been given permission to rise so she had to stay in this position until someone remembered that she might be easier to talk to if she could sit up. And that name had been _given_ to her at her _conversion_. The name she had picked for current life had been Hatice but no one had even asked about it.

“Huma, what a lovely name, and such a lovely face to go with it.” Suleiman stated and turned to his mother. “Have you been hiding her from me, mother?”

The valide smiled at her son. “Certainly not, you just don’t come to visit often enough. Shall send for the eunuchs to prepare her for tomorrow night?”

“Yes, do that.” Suleiman said and stood up. “Good night, mother.”

The valide waited until her son had left the room before turning to Tyrael. “You can sit up, girl, as you are now one of the lucky ones.” She clapped her hands and the head eunuch came in, silently as always. “Have the girl prepared for the sultan’s pleasure tomorrow night.”

Tyrael bowed and stood slowly up, following the man outside. Maybe it would be a one-time thing and Suleiman would forget all about her. She could be boring in bed, it wasn’t that hard.

Present Day

“Poor dear,” Methos cooed. “But you didn’t kill him so I’m very proud of you.”

“So glad you approve of my behavior.” Tyrael shot back annoyed. Any other man she would have killed or at least maimed for such a comment, but they had known each other too long, and she had almost killed him when he had returned to her a few more times. It had been the best day of her entire stay in the harem when his mother had died because Roxelana had kept him pretty much to herself afterwards.

“Well, my experience wasn’t quite the same.” Marique spoke up. “Abdulazis was not Suleiman the Magificent, especially not in bed. He was actually pretty shy. Hard to imagine in a sultan of the Ottoman Empire, but he was.”

“That was probably why he ended up the way he did.” Tyrael muttered.

Marique shrugged. “Probably.”

Istanbul, Ottoman Empire, 1876 AD

The entire palace was in turmoil, rumors running rampart, especially in the harem. The sultan had been deposed, arrested, killed. No one knew for sure, but something was happening but no one thought about stopping for a minute to inform the women what that was.

Marique retired to her rooms and sent her slaves away. There were things she had to do and it was better if they didn’t know about any of them.

Whatever had happened, there would be a new sultan soon, with his own harem. Which meant that there wouldn’t be room for the old one anymore. The wives would be taken care of, it not by the new sultan then by their married daughters. But Marique was only a concubine, she had not such protection. Oh sure, she could seduce the new sultan, if he ever bothered to show his face to them, but she didn’t even want to. She had been here for five years and that was quite enough.

From one of the chest she withdrew a simple dress and quickly changed into it. Hidden inside the fabric were jewels and British pounds, making the dress heavier than it should be, but not so heavy that it was noticeable. Once she got out of here she would need these funds.

There was a sudden knock on the door just as she was adjusting the veil over her white hair. The feature that had landed her in here in the first place. The sultan liked exotic women and a very enterprising merchant in Italy had made it his business to provide them. Ah, well, he wouldn’t be long for this world once she found him.

“Come in.” she called over her shoulder.

Fatima entered the room, tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead. They say he killed himself. He wouldn’t do this to himself, to us.” Like Marique, Fatima was a concubine, her exotic looks coming from the fact that her eyes had different colors. Such a little detail, but it had been enough.

“No,” Marique agreed. Abdulazis was a weak man but not suicidal. “But they can now say whatever they want.” The new regime wasn’t wasting any time.

Fatima sat down on the divan. “What will happen to us now?”

Marique shrugged. “That will depend on the new sultan, if there is a new sultan.”

“Do…do you think he will let us stay?” Fatima wanted to know. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“I don’t know.” Marique said. She was used to build a new life after the other, but Fatima had grown up secluded in her father’s house before coming here. She hadn’t been outside more than once or twice in her life.

Abdulaziz had been sultan for fifteen years, but he had grown weak in the last few years. That was what had killed him in truth. But Marique hadn’t minded him. After she had come to the harem she had actually worked on catching his eye. Why serve as a slave for the others when she could the one served?

When they were called together the next morning their fate had been decided. An official looking man, covered in dozens of medals, stood there reading from a list.

“The royal wives and their children still living in the harem will be allowed to retire to a relative of their choosing. If no relative can be found they may retire to an estate in the country the new sultan will choose for them. The concubines are to leave the palace within one day. I would suggest to leave the empire altogether. The slaves will stay and serve the new sultan and his harem. That is all.”

With that he left, leaving the women in a state of shock.

“What…what are we to do now?” Fatima whispered, clinging to Marique’s arm. “Elare, what will we do?”

“We’ll do what we were told to do.” Marique told her. This was the result she had been hoping for, though having Fatima to take care hadn’t been part of the plan. Oh, well.

“But where will we go?” the younger woman wanted to know.

Marique patted her hand. “I have a few ideas. Don’t worry.”

Present Day

“Nice,” Methos stated. “You still have that dress? Want to bet I find all the hidden pockets?”

Marique playfully punched him in the arm. “No, and no, you won’t.”

“Pity,” Methos sighed. “What happened to poor Fatima?”

“Oh, I found her a nice husband in Venice.” Marique said. “Got a bunch of kids from him, she was very happy.”

“How sweet,” Tyrael purred. “Can we change the subject now?”

“Of course,” Methos refilled her glass. “What other topic do you have in mind?”

Tyrael smiled at him and Methos felt a lower body part stir with excitement. Gods, that woman and her smiles. “How about instead of more talking we get some…exercise to work off all that delicious food?”

“Marique or me?” Methos asked. He really hoped Marique. The idea alone was enough to get him excited like a horny teenager.

Both women smiled. “Ladies first.”

End


End file.
